John Powys - Rodmoor

The three men had scarcely settled themselves down in their respective chairs around the fire than Adrian began speaking hurriedly and nervously.

“I have an extraordinary feeling,” he said, “that this evening is full of fatal significance: I suppose it’s nothing to either of you, but it seems to me as though this damned shish, shish, shish, shish of the sea were nearer and louder than usual. Doctor, you don’t mind my talking freely to you? I like you, though I was rude to you the other day — but that’s nothing—” he waved his hand, “that’s what any fool might fall into who didn’t know you. I feel I know you now. That word about the rum — forgive me, Tassar! — and the kettle — yes, particularly about the kettle — hit me to the heart. I love you, Doctor Raughty. I announce to you that my feeling at this moment amounts to love — yes, actually to love!

“But that’s not what I wanted to say.” He thrust his hands deep into his pockets, stretched his legs straight out, let his chin sink upon his chest and glared at them with sombre excitement. “I feel to-night,” he went on, “as though some great event were portending. No, no! What am I saying? Not an event. Event isn’t the word. Event’s a silly expression, isn’t it, Doctor, — isn’t it — dear, noble-looking man? For you do look noble, you know, Doctor, as you drink that punch — though to say the truth your nose isn’t quite straight as I see it from here, and there are funny blotches on your face. No, not there. There! Don’t you see them, Tassar? Blotches — curious purply blotches.”

While this outburst proceeded Mr. Stork fidgeted uneasily in his chair. Though sufficiently accustomed to Sorio’s eccentricities and well aware of his medical friend’s profound pathological interest in all rare types, there was something so outrageous about this particular tirade that it offended what was a very dominant instinct in him, his sense, namely, of social decency and good breeding. Possibly in a measure because of the “bar sinister” over his own origin, but much more because of the nicety of his aesthetic taste, anything approaching a social fiasco or faux pas always annoyed him excessively. Fortunately, however, on this occasion nothing could have surpassed the sweetness with which Adrian’s wild phrases were received by the person addressed.

“One would think you’d drunk half the punch already, Sorio,” Baltazar murmured at last. “What’s come over you to-night? I don’t think I’ve ever known you quite like this.”

“Remind me to tell you something, Mr. Sorio, when you’ve finished what you have to say,” remarked Dr. Raughty.

“Listen, you two!” Adrian began again, sitting erect, his hands on the arms of his chair. “There’s a reason for this feeling of mine that there’s something fatal on the wind to-night. There’s a reason for it.”

“Tell us as near as you can,” said Dr. Raughty, “what exactly it is that you’re talking about.”

Adrian fixed upon him a gloomy, puzzled frown.

“Do you suppose,” he said slowly, “that it’s for nothing that we three are together here in hearing of that—”

Baltazar interrupted him. “Don’t say ‘shish, shish, shish ‘again, my dear. Your particular way of imitating the Great Deep gives me no pleasure.”

“What I meant was,” Sorio raised his voice, “it’s a strange thing that we three should be sitting together now like this when two months ago I was in prison in New York.”

Baltazar made a little deprecatory gesture, while the Doctor leaned forward with grave interest.

“But that’s nothing,” Sorio went on, “that’s a trifle. Baltazar knows all about that. The thing I want you two to recognise is that something’s on the wind, — that something’s on the point of happening. Do you feel like that — or don’t you?”

There was a long and rather oppressive silence, broken only by the continuous murmur which in every house in Rodmoor was the background of all conversation.

“What I was going to say a moment ago,” remarked the Doctor at last, “was that in this place it’s necessary to protect oneself from that .” He jerked his thumb towards the window. “Our friend Tassar does it by the help of Flambard over there.” He indicated the Venetian. “I do it by the help of my medicine-chest. Hamish Traherne does it by saying his prayers. What I should like to know is how you ,” he stretched a warning finger in the direction of Sorio, “propose to do it.”

Baltazar at this point jumped up from his seat.

“Oh, shut up, Fingal,” he cried peevishly. “You’ll make Adrian unendurable. I’m perfectly sick of hearing references to this absurd salt-water. Other people have to live in coast towns besides ourselves. Why can’t you let the thing take its proper position? Why can’t you take it for granted? The whole subject gets on my nerves. It bores me, I tell you, it bores me to tears. For Heaven’s sake, let’s talk of something else — of any damned thing. You both make me thoroughly wretched with your sea whispers. It’s as bad as having to spend an evening at Oakguard alone with Aunt Helen and Philippa.”

His peevishness had an instantaneous effect upon Sorio who pushed him affectionately back into his chair and handed him his glass. “So sorry, Tassar,” he said. “I won’t do it again. I was beginning to feel a little odd to-night. One can’t go through the experience of cerebral dementia — doesn’t that sound right, Doctor? — without some little trifling after-effects. Come, let’s be sensible and talk of things that are really important. It’s not an occasion to be missed, is it, Tassar, having the Doctor here and punch made with brandy instead of rum, on the table? What interests me so much just now,” he placed himself in front of the fire-place and sighed heavily, “is what a person’s to do who hasn’t got a penny and is unfit for every sort of occupation. What do you advise, Doctor? And by the way, why have you eaten up all the macaroons while I was talking?”

This remark really did seem a little to embarrass the person indicated, but Sorio continued without waiting for a reply.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right, Tassar. It’s a mistake to be sensitive to the attraction of young girls. But it’s difficult — isn’t it, Doctor? — not to be. They’re so maddeningly delicious, aren’t they, when you come to think of it? It’s something about the way their heads turn — the line from the throat, you know — and about the way they speak — something pathetic, something — what shall I call it? — helpless. It quite disarms a person. It’s more than pathetic, it’s tragic.”

The Doctor looked at him meditatively. “I think there’s a poem of Goethe’s which would bear that out,” he remarked, “if I’m not mistaken it was written after he visited Sicily — yes, after that storm at sea, you remember, when the story of Christ’s walking on the waves came into his mind.”

Sorio wrinkled up his eyes and peered at the speaker with a sort of humorous malignity.

“Doctor,” he said, “pardon my telling you, but you’ve still got some crumbs on your moustache.”

“The one word,” put in their host, while Dr. Haughty moved very hastily away from the table and surveyed himself with a whimsical puckering of all the lines in his face, at one of Stork’s numerous mirrors, “the one word that I shall henceforth refuse to have pronounced in my house is the word ‘sea.’ I’m surprised to hear that Goethe — a man of classical taste — ever refers to such Gothic abominations.”

“Ah!” cried Sorio, “the great Goethe! The sly old curmudgeon Goethe! He knew how to deal with these little velvet paws!”